


The Cake That Never Was

by QueenCurphy



Category: American Actor RPF
Genre: Birthday Cake, Birthday Sex, Birthday Smut, Come Eating, Daddy Kink, F/M, Fluff and Smut, Food Fight, Iron Man Cameo, Oral Sex, sort of
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-05
Updated: 2015-04-05
Packaged: 2018-03-21 07:20:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,266
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3683118
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/QueenCurphy/pseuds/QueenCurphy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A fluffy, smutty ficlet to celebrate Mr Downey Jr turning fifty. Happy birthday, handsome face.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Cake That Never Was

It's 8pm, you're exhausted. The to-do list for the day is nowhere near complete, thanks to an emergency call from work; those bastards owe you big time. Leaning against the kitchen counter, shoes kicked into a corner and hair tie pulled from your aching scalp, your eyes roll down the torn paper. In the reddest of red pens, your handwriting screams back at you; 'Robert's cake.' Well shoot. You bite your lip in frustration. Robert will be home any minute, and you've not had one spare moment to even attempt baking a cake, which makes you feel awfully guilty. It's only when the latch on the front door clicks that an idea hatches in your head.

"Honey?" Comes the familiar voice.

"You're home?" You mock in jest, pushing away from the counter.

You're bounding towards him, feet practically skipping as you round the hallway and feel large hands pull you into a hard chest; he's been away for no longer than three days, but his scent and warmth have been sorely missed. Burying your face into his jacket, you mumble incoherent words as he pets your hair; a stray finger runs under your jaw and lifts your gaze to his mocha brown eyes.

"Miss me?" His teeth bare as the corners of his mouth twist into a whimsical grin.

"That obvious?" You stretch on tiptoes to catch his lips with yours, lazily yet desperately tasting him for the first time in days, "Happy birthday old man."

Robert nips your bottom lip, hands playfully slipping down to your ribs, "Plenty of bounce left in this old man, I'm not sure you could keep up." And then he's dominating the next kiss with need and hunger.

It's 8.30pm, you're intoxicated on the taste of Robert alone. The clashing of tongues and roaming hands have moved to the far side of the kitchen, your body pinned between Robert and the refrigerator. As he rolls his hips against you for the umpteenth time, your eyes flutter open and spot the mixing bowl by the basin. 

"Rob, wait."

His removes his mouth from your neck, brow furrowing in reply to the interruption, "What's up sugar?" 

Your cheeks warm and you're sure your skin is rosy pink, you have no idea why the following suggestion makes you blush. "I was going to bake you a birthday cake,"

"Oh?"

"But, I thought, we could bake one together?" A singular, dark eyebrow shoots up, "It'll be fun."

He bows his head, forehead coming to rest against yours as soft laughter rumbles through his chest; with a quick kiss to the tip of your nose, he's striding across the kitchen to slip on his Iron Man chef's apron. "I may be a terrible cook, but I bake like a motherfucker."

***

It's 8.55pm, you're choking back laughter. Robert's wearing an entire packet of exploded flour, his face a ghostly shade of white. Your stomach clenches with hysterical squeaking when he suddenly throws an egg in your direction. "Robert! Stop it! You big baby!"

He flashes pearly white teeth as he swoops around the kitchen island and bee-lines for you, you duck and expertly avoid the handful of flour pluming towards you. You should have seen this coming, you tell yourself; the pair of you trying to complete a task always ends in hilarious disaster.

"You rigged that flour! Little vixen!" 

You turn to escape, instantly pulled back by muscled arms, and your pleas for mercy go unheard; the unbelievable mess in the kitchen is the least of your worries as you're greeted with a face full of icing sugar.

"Robert! You ass!" No matter how much power you put into your stern 'mom voice', you cannot conceal the amusement within it. 

"Come here." His voice drops an octave, from mischievous to alluring.

Your breathing ragged, you wipe as much icing sugar from your face as you turn to look Robert in the eye. He's grabbing a rag, attempting to remove the flour from his own face; he holds out a hand, arm outstretched and inviting, "Come on, sensible hats on. You wanted to bake a cake, so we'll bake the best cake in all of LA." 

*** 

It's 9.27pm, you're panting shallow breaths through parted lips. Robert has long forgotten about the icing he was rolling out, and is currently situated on his knees, between your thighs. Your brain is reduced to fried mush as he slowly tortures you with languid rolls of his tongue and lurid noises that make your eyes roll back. Your right hand tries its hardest to keep beating the cake batter with the wooden spoon as your left clutches the counter with white knuckles; your knees are weak and ready to give way on you. 

"I hope you're mixing that to a smooth consistency?" He drags his talented mouth away from your core to say.

"Y-yes Robert. Please don't stop."

A sharp flick of the tip of his tongue to your swollen bud, a raw howl of desperation cries out in response. "Good girl." He grounds himself back into business, mouth hot and wet, killing you painfully slow. 

It only takes another minute before you're buckling against the countertop; a silent scream painted across your lips as you come hard against his. He's a messy eater, slurping obscenely and allowing your slick excitement to run down his stubbled chin; he's also a very clever man, because he knows too well how you get off on every sordid thing he does. 

"You're the devil." You shudder. Robert simply slides up behind you, thick fingers catching your panties and gliding them back in place as he stands, his mouth attacks your neck, hands planted on your hips.

***

It's 9.42pm, Robert is thrashing beneath your naked body. The cake mixture sits on the counter, destined to remain as sticky batter forever, it won't be rising in the oven anytime soon. You love this, feeling him squirm under you, hearing his hoarse groans as your tongue circles the leaking head of his dick, the smell of pure, heady masculinity. You're drunk on the overstimulation of your senses.

"Don't tease baby," he growls, "are you going to let daddy come?"

The walls of your core clench and contract; that specific kink always gets the desired results. Robert is your life source, he's your muse, the reason you fall asleep sated and wake up with a heart full of love. The man worships you, pleasures you, praises you and disciplines you in just the way you crave. With one last open mouthed kiss to the base of his solid cock, you take him into your throat and swallow, again and again. The sounds that choke from deep in his chest overwhelm you, causing you to rut against his bent knee as you worship him with lips and tongue. 

"I'm coming," he manages to convey with a strangled moan. His body stills, hips stuttering as ropes of salted heat coats your throat. His coming undone rips another orgasm from you, the bone of his knee nudging your clit into overdrive as you scream around his girth, hurtling into climax. Swallowing every drop of his seed, you collapse beside him on the cold kitchen tiles. 

"Best birthday cake ever." He pants out, his usual quirky tone returning, "And you sing so well for me honey, although I'm pretty sure those weren't the words to Happy Birthday To You."

"Well, I hope you're still good to go old man," you roll onto your side, imitating his mock smile, "There's fifty birthday bumps to get through yet." 

End.


End file.
